


The Invisible Man

by Eleana_Lee



Series: Sherlock in Father Brown [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 12:30:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eleana_Lee/pseuds/Eleana_Lee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Watson is in a bind.  The two suitors she had turned down as politely as she could have come back to torment her; one physically and the other mentally.  Fearing she will go insane if the case is left unsolved, she turns to the only one who could help her—consulting detective Sherlock Holmes</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Invisible Man

**Author's Note:**

> I began this series a while ago. It's basically a retelling of some Father Brown cases in modern times and with Sherlock cast as the characters. I took liberties with fem!John's name, so instead of Joan it's Jean, following the French pronunciation. It'll be discussed in the second instalment.
> 
> It follows the main storyline of the Father Brown short stories, but it's not a word-for-word copy, as the characters don't fit then. Also, I do not condone plagiarism, so it might be a bit hypocritical of me if I do it myself, eh? =D
> 
> Oh, and if you think you've read this somewhere else, that's because I'm crossposting here.
> 
> Anyway, hope you like.

Jean Watson always considered herself as your average, ordinary woman.  Her family owned a small brewery and bar and she had helped out at the brewery ever since she was strong enough to do manual labour.  Her older sister, Harry, had worked in the bar before her, and she soon joined her at the bar when yet another of their barkeep quit.

 

Despite the many struggles their family had faced, they came out triumphant in the end.  Their businesses had flourished and there were no longer need for both Harry and Jean to help with manual labour at the brewery.  Harry had opted to stay and learn how to run their family business for when their father retired, while Jean had pursued medical training at Barts and The London School of Medicine and Dentistry.

 

Jean was a bright child.  She passed all her classes with excellent marks, and halfway through medical school she got herself a job as a medical receptionist at a local hospital.  One year later she was promoted as surgery assistant (although she still mostly worked at the front desk) and that was the reason why she wanted to become a surgeon.  Her counsellor was happy for her and always convinced her that she could make it.

 

Imagine her counsellor’s surprise when, during Jean’s second to last semester, her mid-semester results were released and they were barely above the pass mark.

 

“Oh, it’s terrible, Miss Thompson,” Jean fretted as she sat down in the counsellor’s office, wringing the hem of her shirt.

 

“Please, you can call me Ella, Jean,” the counsellor said as she smiled at the young woman, trying her best to look reassuring.  “Now tell me, what is it that distresses you so?”

 

Jean hesitated for a second.  “I fear for my sanity.”

 

Ella looked at Jean in surprise.  “What happened, dear?” she asked in concern.  “Are things too much for you?”

 

“No, no,” Jean said as she quickly shook her head.  “I’ve been... I’ve been hearing voices when I shouldn’t.  It’s like he’s haunting me and I can’t stop thinking about it.”

 

“Oh, poor dear,” Ella said.  “Would you like some tea, Jean?”

 

“Yes, please,” Jean said, staring at her lap and worrying her bottom lip.  “You must think I’m insane.”

 

“Certainly not,” Ella said as she poured Jean a cup of tea and pushed the cup and saucer towards the troubled girl.  “Mental disorders do not usually appear out of the blue like this, so I don’t think you’re suffering from it.  Well, I can’t help you much in this case, but I know someone who can.  One of my students has come to me with a similar problem as yours and he solved it.”

 

Jean looked at Ella with interest.  “Who is this man?”

 

Ella placed a business card beside the saucer.  “Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.”

 

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

 

Jean stood nervously in front of the door with the number 221B on it.  She was surprised to know that the office of said consulting detective was actually his own flat, and it made her somewhat uncomfortable.  What if he was with another client?  What if he was with a guest?  What if he wasn’t at home?

 

She should have called in advance to make an appointment, but Ella told her no one ever did that.  Most consultation requests were done over e-mail or in person.  The fact that Jean had thoughtlessly came to the flat without thinking of other possibilities first had further proved to her that she was worried and scared out of her wits.

 

“If you want to think that hard, don’t do it in front of my door.  It’s distracting.”

 

Jean looked up in surprise and came face to face with a tall, lanky man with pale face and sharp cheekbones that made him look gaunt.  She was about to ask how her thinking outside could be distracting him inside when the man suddenly turned and made his way back inside the flat, although he left the door wide open for her to come in.

 

“I suppose I could overlook it this one time.  You are not an idiot; you have an air of intelligence around you and deciding whether to walk through the door or not shouldn’t take you that long.  Clearly you were distracted too.”

 

“Air of intelligence?” Jean asked as she walked up the steps after closing the door behind her.  She wondered if she should feel insulted that she was referred to as an idiot at first, or flattered that he was at least conceding the fact that she looked smart.

 

“Yes, just not my kind,” the man, Sherlock, she assumed, said easily as he sat down in an armchair.  “Take a seat, Miss Watson, and tell me what troubles you.”

 

Jean was in the middle of thinking of how cute the Union Jack cushion looked when she turned to Sherlock in confusion again.  “Have I somehow told you my name?”

 

“No,” the man said simply and Jean kept staring.  “People do few things, but one of them is talk.  Mrs. Hudson has mentioned you a couple of times, and your counsellor talks about you quite a lot too.  It’s not hard to deduce who you are then.  It’s not every day you see a woman with uncannily steady yet calloused hands.”

 

“Mrs. Hudson?  How do you know her?”

 

“She’s the landlady.”

 

“Ah,” Jean said as she finally took a seat, placing the cushion on her lap and playing with it instead.

 

“So tell me about this stalker of yours,” Sherlock prompted.

 

Jean’s lips quirked into a small smile.  This might turn out easier than she expected.  The man was obviously smart, if a bit eccentric (Jean’s train of thought had been sidetracked when she noticed the human skull on the mantle), and she was hoping this case would be solved very soon so she could save her failing grades.

 

“It started years ago,” Jean started, “before I enrolled in medical school.  I think it was just after we’ve gone through another hard time for our family business.”

 

Sherlock nodded, that being the only indication that he was listening as he was leaning back in the armchair and staring at the ceiling, his fingers steepled, in what Jean could only assume was his ‘thinking pose’.

 

“Among our patrons, there were two who stood out.  They were our most loyal patrons, always there even when we were struggling.  They were wealthy, one would inherit a farm, the other a factory.  We know money is not the problem for them, unlike our other patrons who stayed because we sell cheaper beer than other bars, so my parents suspected they stayed because they were interested in Harry.”

 

“Harry?”

 

“My older sister.  Her name is Harriet, Harry for short,” Jean answered.

 

“Continue.”

 

“Well, it seemed that our suspicions that they stayed because of their interests were correct, but it wasn’t Harry they were interested in.”

 

“It was you.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What did you do then?”

 

“Their proposals came at the same time.  I talked to my parents then, wondering if they wanted me to choose if only to save our family business.  My father had refused, saying he wasn’t going to let his daughter become an object he sold for money.  I rejected them then.”

 

“That was your first mistake, wasn’t it?” Sherlock asked, glancing at Jean before staring up at the ceiling again.  “You were too nice to flat out refuse them.”

 

“I told them that I have no desire to marry someone who doesn’t know hard work,” Jean confirmed.  “I’ve worked hard to get to where I am now, and said I’m not letting that go to marry someone who hasn’t worked half as hard as I have.”

 

“You expected them to give up.  With their status and wealth, it shouldn’t be hard for them to find another woman.  That’s what you were thinking.”

 

Jean paused.  “Are you psychic?”

 

“No, just highly observant.  That, and people are too predictable sometimes.”

 

“Right,” Jean said unsurely.  “Anyway, they didn’t give up.  Next I heard of them, they had gone to London to make a name for themselves.  I didn’t hear from them before I came here for medical school.  I didn’t have my own phone or computer then, so the only way for them to contact me is by sending me a letter.  Harry then forwards the letter to my flat here.”

 

“You’re not from London?” Sherlock asked, only a tiny inflection in his voice betraying his surprise.

 

“Yes, I’m originally from Ledbury.  My family still lives there.”

 

Sherlock made a small hmm noise.  “It’s the middle of a semester, isn’t it?  So you’re afraid at how much this is affecting your grades.  They’ve just come back for you, then?”

 

“Yes,” Jean said.  “The man whose father owns a glass factory is Isidore Smythe.  His first letter to me came during winter break.  He told me of how he and James—that’s the other person, James Welkin, had come to London together, but they parted ways and he has no idea what James is up to.  He also said that he’s now a manager at a financial company.”

 

“Would you like a cup of tea, Miss Watson?” Sherlock asked as he stood up from his seat and walked to the kitchen, not even waiting for Jean’s answer before he turned the kettle on and prepared a tea cup.

 

“Yes, please.  No sugar and just a dash of milk, thank you.”

 

Sherlock returned to the living room with her cup of tea not long after and settled back into his chair.

 

“You know, Sarah told me that while you are brilliant and efficient, you are rude, tactless, and inconsiderate,” Jean commented.

 

“I assume you are talking about Miss Wilkinson, a third-year finance student who required my help to locate a stolen gold necklace.”

 

“Yes, the very same,” Jean said.  “However, aside from saying I was being distracting and indecisive, you have been surprisingly considerate.”

 

Sherlock gave a dismissive shrug.  “I have been told to never cross a doctor, especially a surgeon.  You never know when your life will be in their hands.”

 

Jean chuckled.  “We’re under oath to not let any resentment affect our professionalism.  Otherwise I believe most serial killers would be doctors.”

 

“So what did this Welkin fellow do?”

 

Jean noted the request for topic change and nodded.  “He laughed.”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

 

“He had a strange laugh.  A strange, distinctive laugh.  When I finished reading the letter from Smythe, I heard his laugh, when there was no one there.  It unsettled me, but I told myself that I was just imagining things and that was that.”

 

“So, what happened next?” Sherlock asked.  “You wouldn’t be here unless there’s a follow up.”

 

“True,” Jean said.  “Smythe’s second letter came about two weeks ago.  He attached a copy of his promotion letter.  He’s being promoted to senior manager.”

 

“Ah, proof that he has worked hard,” Sherlock commented.  “And soon he would be around to ask your hand in marriage again?”

 

“That’s what I thought too,” Jean said.  “But as with the first letter, I heard Welkin again.  He said “he shan’t have you, though” and I became scared.  Not for myself, of course, but for Smythe.  They have come back to torment me, but while Smythe has returned in person, Welkin... he—“

 

“I understand,” Sherlock cut her off and Jean shot him grateful looks for not having to finish that sentence before quickly going for her tea again.  “From what you have told me I can conclude that Welkin hasn’t made as good progress as Smythe and is feeling threatened.  The competitive side of him is unstable and you fear he will turn murderous.  He has disappeared, yet continues to torment you.”

 

“How do you know he’s disappeared?” Jean asked as she frowned.

 

“Come now, Miss Watson.  You are not an idiot,” Sherlock scoffed.  “You wouldn’t have believed what Smythe said without confirming it for yourself, and while you were looking him up, you thought of looking Welkin up as well to check his progress, but to your disappointment, you found nothing on him.  Not since he left for London all those years ago.”

  
“Don’t make me rethink my oath when it comes to you, Mr. Holmes,” Jean said as she chuckled.  “Yes, that is true.  He has disappeared without a trace, very clever of him.  I don’t know where to look so I can’t stop him myself.  That’s why I’m here asking for your help.”

 

“The same way your friend Mr. Smythe will be asking for the New Scotland Yard’s help in protecting himself,” Sherlock said calmly, leaning back in his chair and adopting his thinking pose again.

 

Jean placed her cup down and was about to ask Sherlock if he wanted her to leave so he could think in peace and maybe come back a few days later, but there was a knock on the front door that interrupted her.

 

Jean turned to look at the door, then back at Sherlock, wondering if he was going to ignore the guest or open the door for them.

 

“Jean,” Sherlock said, still staring at the ceiling.  “Can I call you Jean?”

 

“You’re going to call me Jean either way, right?”

“Don’t be rude to our guest and open the door, Jean.”

 

Jean was about to complain, saying _she_ was a guest, but decided that it would require less energy to just get up and open the door than argue with Sherlock.  She opened the door to see a tall man dressed in crisp white shirt and plain black coat.

 

“I didn’t know you’re with a client.  Should I come back later?” the man asked when he saw Jean opening the door.

 

“Come in, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, still not moving.  “I don’t keep people away when they have the same goal.”

 

Lestrade sighed, apparently used to Sherlock’s eccentricities, and turned to Jean.  “Good afternoon, Miss Watson.  Here to see Sherlock about someone named Smythe?”

 

“Yes.  He contacted the police?” Jean asked.

 

“He did,” Lestrade confirmed.  He walked into the flat, followed closely by Jean.  “He’s been receiving death threats, and this is only one of many.”

 

Lestrade produced a small, plain envelope.  The address was printed on the envelope but there was no stamp.  Inside was a piece of paper with cut up pieces of newspaper or magazine, the words arranged to form a threat saying the sender would kill Smythe when he least expected it.

 

“I didn’t know you two knew each other,” Sherlock commented as he studied the envelope.

 

“She probably knows everyone in this neighbourhood.  Hard not to when you work at the front desk of a local hospital,” Lestrade said with a shrug.  “So, what do you make of it?”

 

“We’re dealing with an invisible man,” Sherlock said as he stood up.  “Where does this Smythe live?”

 

“An apartment building about three blocks from here,” Lestrade answered.  “I asked some people to keep an eye out for strangers and to notify me if anyone goes in.”

 

Sherlock clicked his tongue.  “It won’t work.  We have to hurry there before it’s too late.”

 

“What?  What won’t work?” Lestrade asked in confusion.

 

“No time to explain now, we have to hurry!”

 

“Okay, okay!”

 

The three got into Lestrade’s police car (well, Jean and Lestrade scrambled in while Sherlock gracefully got in) and drove off towards said apartment building.

 

When they arrived, Lestrade immediately approached a beggar sitting by the sidewalk, a painter hired to repaint the sign of a store across the road, and the security guard of the building itself.  All three of them said no one had got in.

 

“See?  There was no need to hurry,” Lestrade said as he walked into the apartment building, followed closely by Sherlock and Jean.  He pressed the button of the elevator and waited for it to arrive while Sherlock was looking around.

 

An old woman walked past them with letters in her hands, all the junk mails apparently thrown away already.  Jean smiled and nodded at the elderly lady, who nodded back at her in greeting, but Sherlock was suddenly running out of the building.

 

“What happened?” Jean asked Lestrade in confusion.  The detective inspector shrugged and simply ran after Sherlock, followed by Jean.  “Sherlock!  What happened?”

 

“We’re too late.  Smythe’s dead now,” Sherlock said, looking around.  “There.  He went that way,” he said, pointing a certain direction, and took off again.

 

“What exactly are we looking for?” Lestrade demanded as he tried to keep up with Sherlock.  He had to admit he wasn’t as fit as the younger man and couldn’t run as far.  What amazed him was how easily Jean could keep up with Sherlock, especially since she was about a head shorter than him.

 

“The mailman!”

 

Just then they rounded the corner and saw a mailman carrying a brown bag that was usually filled with letters.  Jean sprinted after him and tackled the mailman down, causing him to let out a startled grunt and to let go of the bag he was carrying, which was hiding Smythe’s dead body.

 

It was at that moment that Sherlock was reminded that Jean used to work in the brewery too, not only at the bar.  Another reason not to cross her.

 

Lestrade quickly cuffed the murderer and called St. Bart’s hospital to take care of the dead body.  He bodily dragged Welkin to the police car then turned to Jean.

 

“Mr. Welkin,” Jean said in a cold, clipped tone as she addressed the older man.  “Fancy seeing you again.”

 

“Jean,” James said, his eyes everywhere but on her.

 

“When I said hard work all those years ago, I didn’t mean this,” Jean said, disapproval and disappointment clear in her tone.  “You have everything a man could ever wish for, yet you gave it all up for the sake of competition.”

 

“I didn’t have everything,” James denied.  “I didn’t have you.”

 

“You shan’t have me, though,” Jean said, the exact same words he had said to her.  “Good bye, Mr. Welkin.  I hope you have enough time to think over whether this is worth killing another man.”

 

Lestrade put Welkin in the passenger seat while Sherlock and Jean got in the back seat.  He brought them to the NSY headquarters because he needed Sherlock to tell him all the details for the report and because he didn’t want to leave Jean in the middle of nowhere after taking her there.

 

“So tell me how you knew it was the mailman,” Lestrade demanded.

 

“It’s a curious little thing, that,” Sherlock said as he leaned back in the chair in front of Lestrade’s desk.  “If you ask a person if there’s anyone with them at the house, they will say no, even if the housekeeper is in.  But if you ask them how many people are in the house at that time, then they will say two.”

 

“Is that what you mean by invisible?” Jean asked.

 

“Exactly,” Sherlock said.  “You said you heard him laugh while there was no one there.  It couldn’t be true.  Most people go over their letters as soon as they received them, so that must mean there is someone right beside you.”

 

“The mailman.”

 

“Correct.  The mailman is nothing out of the ordinary, so even if you asked people to do a stakeout in front of the apartment building, they will still say no one got in, while in fact someone did.  People are too used to the mailman to give them much thought.”

 

“I see,” Lestrade hummed.  “Well, I’ll drop you two off to your homes now.”

 

“Well, thank you, Sherlock,” Jean said as she smiled at the consulting detective.  “Ella was right.  You certainly helped me.”

 

“Don’t mind it.  I was bored anyway.”

 

“How much do you usually charge for a consultation?”

 

“Don’t worry about it.”

 

“But I insist.  I did take up your time and—“

 

“You really want me to say why I don’t want to accept payment from you out loud?”

 

“... no.”

 

Sherlock’s lips quirked into a smile, an adorably infuriating smile (or infuriatingly adorable, whichever worked better).  “I thought so.  See you around, good doctor.”

 

“I’ll make sure not to cut up anything by accident!”

 

Sherlock chuckled as the police car drove away, headed towards his flat next, and Lestrade simply stared at him strangely through the rear view mirror.

 

“Keep your eyes on the road, Lestrade.”

 

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

 

Jean hummed to herself as she finished typing up a report that was due the end of the week.  Ever since the case with Smythe and Welkin was solved, she could concentrate on her studies again and her grades were quickly picking up, much to the delight of Ella.  Jean had sent her counsellor a small bouquet of flowers as thanks and was happy to see it in a vase on Ella’s desk when she visited next.

 

Also, when she told Sarah about how thoughtful Sherlock was to her, she had asked if Jean was hallucinating.  She thought Sherlock was incapable of being thoughtful, but Jean denied it, saying Sherlock had refused payment from her because he somehow knew she was struggling financially (probably the hand-me-down jumper she was wearing on that day) and didn’t say it out loud because Lestrade could overhear.  Her family’s business had indeed flourished, but most of the revenue went to the upkeep of the bar and to Jean’s tuition fee, so she was left with little.

 

Sarah still thought Jean was hallucinating.

 

“Mail for Miss Jean Watson!”

 

“Coming!” Jean called back as she rushed out of her flat and towards the mailman, accepting the letters from him.  “Thank you.”

 

There was no junk mail that day, which was quite strange, but Jean had dismissed the thought quickly.  There was a letter from home, and a plain note card with only the words “To Jean Watson” on the front, written in neat cursive.  She turned it over curiously, and nearly dropped the card in surprise.

 

Jean looked around, spotting the mailman walking away from her at a leisurely pace and wondered why she didn’t notice the familiar voice and stance.  There was no mistaking it; the pale face, those sharp cheekbones, and dark curls.

 

Feeling an unexplainable excitement bubbling from inside her, she couldn’t fight the grin making its way onto her face.  Right before the mailman turned around the corner, she shouted, “Yes!”

 

_Want to move in with me?  It’ll save you money and I’m looking forward to having a doctor as an assistant._


End file.
